


W is for Warmth

by Janieshi



Series: Alphabet [23]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Huddling For Warmth, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing Clothes, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: In which Team Mustang is temporarily stranded out in the cold, the boys huddle together to conserve body heat, and a handmade gift from long ago returns to keep its maker warm





	W is for Warmth

_Warmth /_ _wôrmTH_ _/noun –1) the quality, state, or sensation of being warm; moderate and comfortable heat. 2) enthusiasm, affection, or kindness; the quality of being intimate and attached._

* * *

They’d been prepared for winter weather, of course. But no one had realized exactly how _much_ colder it would get once the sun went down. Now that their mission was over, and the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, the vicious cold made itself known with a vengeance.

Thankfully the snow had tapered off, but the wind was still bitter and sharp, and its icy fingers cut straight through their winter gear as if they wore nothing at all. The only shelter they’d managed to get to was a rickety old bus stop, no more than a tiny covered bench at the side of a very rural road. They were surrounded on all sides by featureless snow-covered blankness, and it was making everyone vaguely uncomfortable.

Fuery and Havoc huddled tightly together on the little wooden bench, shivering, Fuery having tucked himself shamelessly into the taller man’s side. Breda knelt at Havoc’s feet, trying off a bandage on Havoc’s upper thigh. It was a fairly minor wound, but they’d had to cut away part of his pant-leg in order to get to it, and no one was happy with how pale his face had gotten.

Breda began to wind a separate bandage around what was left of Havoc’s left pant-leg, so that it wouldn’t be completely exposed to the frigid air, but Havoc was still shivering hard enough that Hawkeye could hear his teeth chattering from fifteen feet away.

Falman eyed his teammates, probably trying to think of a way to ask if he could get in on their cuddle huddle without sounding like a complete weirdo. But even as he dithered, Fuery glanced up and stretched his free arm out in invitation. Falman didn’t wait to be asked twice.

Breda finished repacking the first aid kit and levered himself up and out of the kneeling position. Stomping his feet to get feeling back into them, he moved to stand on Havoc’s unoccupied side and slung an arm over his shoulders, as the bench was now too crowded to accommodate another person.

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here,” he grumbled, leaning as close as possible to Havoc.

“And how exactly would one determine the temperature of that _particular_ bit of a witch’s anatomy, anyway?” Fuery asked, amused.

“Well,” Falman started to say thoughtfully.

“Rhetorical question, Falman,” Hawkeye interjected gently.

“Oh,” he flushed a little as the others snickered. She came to his rescue once again.

“Besides, I’ve always preferred the expression: ‘colder than a polar bear’s toenails,’ myself,” she mused. “That one at least makes logical sense.”

Her teammates quickly descended into a good natured dispute over their favored similes, most of which were far less innocent than the Lieutenant’s. The most popular seemed to be ‘colder than a pimp’s heart,’ although Havoc made a good argument for ‘colder than a brass toilet seat on the shady side of an iceberg.’

“ _Literally_ freezing-ass cold!” he insisted, as the others laughed.

Hawkeye listened to the bickering of her teammates with a soft, affectionate smile on her lips.

Mustang, meanwhile, was pacing several feet away, scanning the road with carefully concealed anxiety. Leaving the others to their discussion, Hawkeye joined him.

“Is this really the best we can do for shelter, sir?” she asked in a low voice. Beside her, Mustang sighed.

“Unless we want to hike another four or five miles through the snow,” he replied quietly. “Normally I’d say let’s go for it, but now that it’s getting dark? And with Havoc’s injury…I don’t want to risk it.”

“How long until our ride gets here?” she asked.

“Another hour, tops. They know we have an injured man, and they’re aware of the conditions out here. We’ll just have to make the best of this sorry little bus stop until they arrive. I’d light a fire, but…” he gestured helplessly to encompass the utter lack of combustible materials at hand. “Even I can’t set fire to the snow.”

“Really? Weren’t you just railing about how flame alchemy isn’t actually useless in the rain, sir? Since ‘water is nothing more than hydrogen and oxygen, both of which are _very_ combustible?’” she teased, quoting his words from earlier that afternoon.

“Well, I mean…I could EXPLODE the snow, certainly,” he chuckled, accepting her friendly taunt in the spirit in which it had been intended. “But that wouldn’t be _quite_ the comfortable and sustainable source of heat that we’re looking for. If only there were a couple of trees around here, or shrubs or something; _some_ sort of fuel…”

“I’d suggest breaking up the bench, but I suppose things aren’t dire enough to justify property destruction,” Hawkeye mused, glancing back at the others.

“If the transport isn’t here within the hour, we can revisit that idea,” Mustang sighed, running his hands briskly over his arms. “This is miserable.”

Hawkeye cupped her gloved hands over her mouth and blew into them, hardly even feeling the warmer, humid air on her numb fingers.

“I do wish I’d packed a few extra layers,” she admitted.

“Here,” Mustang said, and before she could even voice a protest, he’d tugged his own scarf off of his neck and looped it around hers.

Hawkeye raised a hand to the (deliciously, gloriously warm) scarf, intending to refuse his offer and insist he take it back. But as she started to pull it off, she glanced down at the material and froze in surprise. Soft, well-worn, hand-knitted wool…this wasn’t just any scarf.

It was THE scarf.

The one she’d made herself, with her own two hands, for the boy she had been hopelessly in love with back when they’d both been so young and so naïve.

It smelled like him – a heady musk of warm, male skin with the faintest traces of soap and a woodsy cologne. Involuntarily, Riza breathed in deep, suffused by warmth that had nothing to do with the extra layer of fabric.

For just a moment she was fourteen again: hiding from Roy in the loft of her barn, wrapped in a quilt against the chill, feverishly counting stitches and desperately anxious about finishing it in time; afraid that she’d be caught and her surprise would be all ruined.

In the end she’d been too shy to actually give it to him in person. She’d slipped it into his suitcase with a note, helplessly praying that he’d like it as she watched the train carry him away to his aunt’s.

When he’d come back to her with the scarf wrapped snug around his throat, her heart had nearly burst with joy. To realize that he’d kept it; that he wore it still, even all these years later…

Hawkeye flushed like a schoolgirl.

“Is…is the Lieutenant blushing?” Falman whispered.

“What on earth is _on_ that scarf?” Breda hissed back. Fuery just gaped, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

“Colonel, you’re not forcing the Lieutenant to wear some other girl’s love token, are you?” Havoc asked, more loudly and far more recklessly than his teammates. Breda and Fuery smacked him at the same time. “Ow, what?” he said, plaintively.

“Please ignore him, sirs, he’s suffering from blood loss and probably hypothermia,” Breda said quickly. Falman scrunched up his nose and opened his mouth, probably to discourse on the causes and symptoms and treatments of hypothermia. Fuery snaked a hand over his mouth before he could do more than clear his throat.

Hawkeye’s flush deepened, and her teammates looked on in amazement as she ducked her head slightly, avoiding their eyes. Mustang bit back a delighted grin.

“As a matter of fact, Havoc, it _was_ made for me by a girl,” he explained, his dark eyes sparkling. “It was a long time ago, but we were very close. I still cherish it in memory of her.”

“ _Were_ very close?” Hawkeye murmured, inaudible to the others.

“She meant a great deal to me back then,” Mustang went on, smooth as silk. More quietly, he added: “But she means even more to me with each passing year.” He reached out to straighten the twisted fabric on his lieutenant’s neck, tucking the trailing ends of the scarf carefully under the lapels of her coat. “So please, Lieutenant, take good care of it.”

“Yes, sir,” she choked out.

Behind her, Havoc’s eyes had gone soft and suspiciously liquid.

“Awww,” he whispered, wriggling in delight.

“I wish a girl would make _me_ a scarf,” Breda grumbled, leaning into his friend once more. “Right about now would be good, in fact.”

“I can crochet, sort of,” Fuery volunteered. “I could probably manage a passable scarf if I had the yarn. Well, and a crochet hook, obviously.” His ears turned pink as the others turned to stare at him. “What? General Grumman taught me, once! It was a long night and he was making something for his granddaughter. He let me help!” he added, defensive.

Hawkeye startled.

“Was it a green and white blanket, Sergeant?” she asked suddenly.

“Wha-? Oh, yes! Alternating squares!” Fuery replied.

“How on earth did you guess that, ma’am?” Breda asked, frowning.

“It’s just, the general, he—,” Hawkeye stammered a bit in an uncharacteristic display of awkwardness before finding her words again. “General Grumman taught me to crochet as well,” she finally said. “Neither of us are particularly _good_ at it, but he maintains that it’s the thought that counts. I, um, I know the blanket you’re referring to.”

“Oh?” Mustang said, with a keen glance. “Hidden depths, indeed.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, eyes narrowed.

“Agh, I can’t take this!” Breda said suddenly. “All this talk of scarfs and blankets and I can’t feel my damn toes,” he grumbled, stalking over to the pile of their supplies. He dragged one of their discarded packs over to Havoc’s feet, and then promptly sat on top of it, protecting his rear end from the snow on the ground. “Come here, you great shivering idiot,” he added, wrapping his arms around Havoc’s leg and chafing it lightly with both hands.

Havoc, who had indeed been shivering, managed a semi-hysterical little giggle and tugged Fuery a little closer into his other side. Fuery went willingly, all but burrowing into his ribs, and Falman followed, loath to lose any of their shared body heat.

“It’s like hugging a lamp post, you skinny bastard,” Breda complained, leaning one shoulder against Fuery’s knees.

“H-hug a lot of p-posts, do you?” Havoc managed, his teeth still chattering. “Sounds like you need a girlfriend as b-bad as I do, loser.”

“Yeah?” Breda snapped. “Well, at least if I _liked_ someone, I’d have the guts to actually ask her out to dinner rather than just pathetically pining at her from afar! Making sheep’s eyes every time she walks in the room, geez. You’re like a damn teenager,” he grumbled. “At first it was kinda funny, but now it’s just sad, man.”

“Hey!” Havoc huffed, kicking at him. “That’s not – shut up!”

“Quit trying to break my ribs, you ungrateful ass, or I’ll just scoot over and hug Falman’s legs instead,” Breda threatened. “Maybe HE would appreciate me!”

“Please don’t drag me into your argument,” Falman said faintly. They both ignored him.

“L-leave Catalina out of this, you prick - it’s n-none of your b-business!”

“Fine, then man up and ask her out, already!” Breda retorted. “She obviously likes you or she’d have told you to fuck off by now. I’ve actually seen her do exactly that; the woman is NOT bashful!”

Hawkeye and Mustang both nodded thoughtfully; they’d each seen Rebecca tell off unwanted suitors several times.

“And hold the fuck still; you’re making it really hard to snuggle!” Breda went on.

“I can’t control _shivering_ , you j-jerk. It’s a reflex!” Havoc cried.

“Seriously, beanpole, you need to eat more. This wouldn’t be a problem if you had some more meat on your bones!”

“Why mess with perfection?” Havoc retorted, ‘accidentally’ kicking Breda again.

“Maybe if you had a little more insulation you wouldn’t be freezing your dumb ass _off_ ; you ever think about that?” Breda demanded.

Beside them, Fuery shook with silent laughter. Falman just hunched his shoulders and tuned the lot of them out.

He’d gotten good at that, over the years.

With the team’s attention focused on their bickering, Hawkeye chanced another look at her superior officer, and found him watching her with a soft, secretive smile. He offered her his elbow, which she took gratefully. They stood together, arm-in-arm like children, watching the road and ignoring the affectionate squabbles behind them.

“I suppose I needn’t ask whether you remember,” he murmured after a moment. She chuffed, and briefly tightened her hold on his arm, but didn’t meet his eyes.

“How could I possibly forget?” she replied, wondering whether her cheeks were still pink. “I can’t believe you still have it, after all this time.”

“Never underestimate sentimental value,” he said softly. “Someone put her heart into making it for me, you see. It’s worth more than a hundred store-bought, machine-made scarves.”

Hawkeye smiled, thinking of the rather ugly, lumpy green-and-white afghan that lay folded on the back of her couch. She leaned into him, just a little bit more.

“It’s the thought that counts?” she suggested.

“Precisely.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my beloved Footnote, who needed a bit of warmth in her life after a long, cold, lonely winter.   
> Readers of Espionage might recognize The Scarf, which was young Riza's Winter Solstice gift to young Roy. I've been waiting to bring that back since the day I wrote that scene, because Roy absolutely has kept and cherished that gift for years.


End file.
